Marsais noticed her unease. “What is it, Isiilde?” He took a step towards her, but she stepped away, until her back hit the door.
Marsais stopped. “Isiilde?” he asked, worried.
The room was serene, and so very clean and fresh. What had her on edge? Her gaze darted around the chamber, from the pristine tiles, to the trickling fountain, and at each of her companions.
Elam asked something in his native tongue, and Marsais answered with a shrug.
“What’s a matter, Sprite?”
She did not know. A feeling; a fear.
“Maybe it’s the water,” said Rivan, taking out his ritual stone. With a prayer, he summoned the light to the stone and placed it in the fountain. After a full minute, he proclaimed the water clean. “Should I try it?”
“It seems to be the only thing in here,” said Marsais.
“Aye, you might as well be the cup bearer. If you keel over, I’ll heal you.” Oenghus rubbed his hands together.
Rivan swallowed, and dipped a hand in the water, bending forward to drink. Isiilde held her breath. “It’s good,” the paladin announced. But when he straightened, his eyes went wide, staring into the fountain. The paladin drew his sword, and turned. He looked straight at Oenghus, and then stabbed. The blade went through the giant’s gut, dropping Oenghus to the floor.
“No!” Isiilde screamed.
Acacia stepped forward, swinging, but her leg was weak, and her balance was off. Rivan deflected the blow, answering with a riposte. His sword caught her between neck and shoulder.
Flame leapt to the nymph’s palms, but before she could send it hurling at Rivan, Marsais stepped behind the paladin, dagger in hand. He plunged the knife into Rivan’s back. The paladin dropped to his knees, and Marsais wrenched his blade free, raising it to strike again—in his left hand.
Everything clicked. At the last moment, Isiilde adjusted her focus, sending a flaming burst at Marsais’ chest. The blow knocked him back against the wall.
Pain sliced across her shoulder, and another arrow ripped her clothes, thudding into the door. She whirled, sending a barrage of flame into the Elite. Both fell.
With a screeching cry, Elam charged Rivan. The paladin caught the boy, hurling him against the stone. Elam landed with a crack.
On his knees, Rivan scrambled for his sword, twisting around to point the tip at her. There were tears in his eyes, and pain on his face. He held his arm close to his body.
“Stay back!” he shouted.
Isiilde looked to the water, to her dead companions, and finally Rivan. She shook out her flame, and put a hand to the arrow wound. Blood seeped between her fingers. Rivan’s sword stayed pointed at her, his hand quivering with weakness. “Put the sword down, Rivan,” she said.
“How do I know you’re not one of them?”
Her mind raced. “Acacia’s bandage is on the wrong leg. Oenghus would have struck you down before you drew your sword. I should ask the same of you, but you are holding your sword in the correct hand. I think it’s some kind of mirrored illusion.”
“You used fire,” Rivan rasped, more to reassure himself than her. Slowly, he lowered his sword. The act pitched him forward, and Isiilde raced to the paladin’s side. Blood seeped from his back. She pressed a hand to the wound, but it felt odd—dry. And something protruded from the wound.
Trusting her instincts, she drank the water from the fountain. The illusion around the dead unraveled, revealing dried, thread-like husks—humanoid shapes that looked as though they were spun from finely woven silk. The stone fell away. The same silken threads covered the walls and floor like a spider’s cocoon. The comparison made Isiilde shudder.
She knelt beside Rivan, whose breath came slow. There was a yellowish-bone horn, like a fang or talon, stuck in his flesh. The threads were spreading.
With careful fingers, Isiilde probed her own shoulder. It wasn’t blood. Frantic, she unlaced her own shirt and exposed her shoulder. Threads crept from the wound.
Gritting her teeth, she focused on her bond. It stirred, and fire roared to life, surging through her veins. She concentrated on that spot, on the pain and dryness, the intrusion of poison. Her body heated, her clothes grew hot, and a thin black line of smoke rose from the gash. The threads curled back, burning to ash.
Cleansed, Isiilde turned to Rivan. The horn had pierced the leather jerkin. She gripped bone with both hands. It was dry and sticky, and a wave of revulsion churned her gut. With a jerk, she tugged the horn free and tossed it as far as she could. She peeled off his armor, and cut at his clothing with her knife, exposing the wound. Isiilde bit back a cry. The silky threads covered the puncture, and were spreading, weaving in and out of his flesh. The taint was stitching his flesh anew. Had this same poison claimed the others before her arrival?
Isiilde pushed the thought aside, refusing to look at the husks of her friends. Rivan still lived; she’d focus on him. She raised her dagger, summoning flame to her palm. Fire engulfed the blade. In seconds, the steel glowed red.
“I’m sorry, Rivan.” The threads had spread, reaching towards his eyes and mouth. He gasped and sucked in air. She pressed the blade over the wound. Rivan arched and screamed, clawing at the ground.
The silky threads curled back. Singed blood and flesh filled her senses, and slowly, the threads turned to ash, revealing his wound. Instead of blood, a thick black substance bubbled from the hole in his back.
Isiilde swallowed down a cry. She took his face in her hands. His eyes were alert, but the pale, silken threads reached out of his nose, and stretched from the corner of his mouth. “It didn’t work.”
“Heal me,” he choked.
“I can’t!”
“Try.”
“I’ll burn you,” she whispered.
He shook his head. “I don’t want this.” He coughed and gagged, and she touched the dagger’s tip to the ends beside his lips. The thread curled back, giving him space to breathe. His eyes slid sideways, to where a husk lay. “I like your fire.” With trembling fingers he fumbled for his pouch. “Horse... for you.”
Isiilde’s eyes itched. She blinked it away, and retrieved the small, wooden horse that he had worked on every night during their journey. Rivan’s hand locked around the Sacred Sun on his neck and his lips moved, but no sound came. Acacia.
Isiilde nodded, and laid one hand on his forehead and slipped the other over the thread-like skin of his chest. She could feel the warmth and the taut muscles beneath.
There was still time.
Isiilde closed her eyes, summoned the Lore, and plunged into Rivan’s spirit, leaving the physical realm behind. She went straight for the source, following the thready strands in her mind’s eye. She did not have to take on his pain; only burn away the poison. She touched each thread, so carefully, so gently, and as she went along each curled into blackness and ash.
Isiilde felt his heart stop. Her healing was too slow. Desperate, she sent a pulse of the Gift into his body. Rivan jerked, his heart began to beat, but the source of her Gift was not life; it was chaos. Fire surged from her fingertips, washing over his spirit, setting it alight. The threads burned, the poison fled, and Rivan’s flesh burst into flames.
She broke the link, falling back with a cry. Unnatural fire consumed his clothes, his face, burned away his hair, leaving a cairn of smoke and char. The flames spread, eating at the cocoon of silky threads.
For a long time, Isiilde stared at the remains of Rivan: a husk of char and bone. Ash swirled around the nymph, falling like gentle snow. She lowered her eyes, and looked to her hands. So small and ethereal, and yet so destructive.
The nymph sat until the ash settled, until nothing stirred but a slow trickle of water. She blinked, eyes burning, and then blinked again. Slowly, she reached out, and forced Rivan’s hand open. Brittle bones cracked, and the Sacred Sun came free. She rubbed the soot from the golden symbol, and tucked it in her palm.
There should be words to say, but none came. Rivan had crossed a bridge that
no one could breach.
With a numb, cold heart, she stood, and turned her back on the dead paladin. The walls were all solid stone, grey and blackened. There was still no door save the one she had walked through.
A shape caught her eye in the ashes. She nudged it with her toe, and knocked loose the soot: Rivan’s sword. Isiilde picked it up. It was lighter than she’d imagined, and although the hilt was blackened, the steel was bright. She glanced back at the paladin’s burnt husk. He no longer needed it.
With nowhere to store it, she thrust the sword through her sash and walked to the only remaining thing in the chamber: the fountain. Ash floated on the surface of water. Her heart hurt, so she turned it off and focused on the puzzle.
This was a cruel trap. A ward had mirrored each companion, and each had entered a different alcove. But there was the catch, one cruel twist: not all were mirrored husks, and the first to drink the water would be the first to see through the illusion. When Rivan attacked, she had first thought him poisoned, or mad. What would Oenghus do if Marsais had suddenly killed her mirrored twin? Friends would kill friends. That was the intent.
Isiilde hit the water with her fist, disturbing the layer of ash. A hazy, rippling reflection stared back, and the puzzle clicked. Through water she had entered, and through water she would leave. The nymph stepped onto the brim, and into the fountain.
The stone underfoot clicked. The water stopped flowing from the spout, and a stone hatch slid to the side, revealing a spiral of stairs. The water flowed gently down its slope, trickling peacefully into the dark. Without looking back, she summoned a spark, and followed the path.
Chapter Fifty-One
Isiilde Jaal’Yasine stood on the final step. Water drained through tiny holes in the floor, and a short corridor stretched beneath her feet. Everflame flickered steadily in a sconce, illuminating a mirror at the very end.
She stepped down, and walked to the mirror. She did not need a Runic Eye to sense the weave. Full of silence and empty of fear, she felt the powerful weave in her bones. It was a teleportation rune.
Isiilde placed her hand flat on the mirror’s surface. The glass welcomed her, tugging her in and spewing her out the other side. She stepped into a great hall. It was round, ringed by pillars and a large spiraling floor. The columns reached towards a dome, but there was no queasy pattern on the tiles above. It was shadow and air. The nymph wanted to shrink back, away from that darkness. She swallowed down instinct, and stepped into the hollow chamber. The shift of perception offered a new view. She was not alone.
Oenghus stood on the far side, gripping sword and shield. And to the right, stood Marsais and Elam. Acacia and Nalani stood together, clutching their own weapons. Eight had entered, and six now stood. More trickery? Another game?
Oenghus’ eyes went wide when he saw her, and he charged across the spiraling tile. She tensed, taking a step back. Fire sprang to her hands.
“Oen!” Marsais hissed.
Oenghus slowed. “Sprite?”
“What are you to me?” she asked.
He blinked at the threat in her voice, and stopped. “I’m your father,” he whispered. No weave would know that; no imposter. She shook out her flame, and he rushed forward, catching her up with one arm. He smelled of blood, and she pulled back, searching for the source.
“You’re hurt.”
“Aye, well...” he faltered, face grim. “The archer and I didn’t get on too well in there.” He put her down. Blood leaked from his chest, and he held his arm stiffly. When she probed the tear in his clothes, she noted yet another arrow shaft. The head was imbedded in his pectoral.
The others ventured near. Relief warmed Marsais’ eyes, and Elam smiled, but the boy’s excitement faded when he saw Rivan’s sword thrust through her sash.
Acacia limped forward, and Isiilde’s stomach flipped. The Knight Captain was pale and drawn, and looked dead on her feet, but her gaze was sharp, fixed on the sword. “Rivan?” Acacia asked.
Words caught in the nymph’s throat. She closed her eyes, and took a breath. “The poison—the threads—I tried to heal him, but failed.” Isiilde held out his sword and holy symbol, meeting the Knight Captain’s eye.
Acacia bit back a sound. Her hand went to her stomach as if the nymph had just run her through. She made for the mirror, but Oenghus stepped in her path.
“Get out of my way,” Acacia growled.
“You can’t,” Oenghus said.
“I won’t leave him in there!”
Oenghus grabbed her arms, but Acacia drove a fist into his wound and he staggered back. Acacia limped past.
“I burned him!” Isiilde shouted. It brought Acacia up short. Isiilde expected anger, ached for fury, wanted the warrior to run her through, but there was only shock. “There’s nothing left of him,” she whispered. “He didn’t turn into... one of those things.” Rivan’s gentle voice drifted in her memory, about two simple words bridging someone’s pain. The nymph spoke those words now. “I’m sorry.” Not for herself, not for the burden of blood that she carried, but for another’s loss.
Acacia closed her eyes, and clenched her jaw. Despite the woman’s steely visage, tears leaked down her cheeks. For a moment the paladin swayed, and then she stepped towards the nymph, not with anger but grief.
Acacia pulled her into a hug. “Thank you for trying,” Acacia whispered in her ear. Isiilde gave a silent nod and clutched the woman back.
“Coen?” Nalani asked.
Oenghus shook his head. “I was the first to drink. He thought I’d gone berserk.”
“Cruelty at its finest,” Acacia said, stepping back.
Isiilde held out the Sacred Sun. “He wanted you to have this.”
Acacia’s fingers trembled when she took the blackened symbol. She hung it around her own neck, tucking it beneath her armor. When Isiilde tried to hand over his sword, Acacia shook her head. “Keep it.” Her voice cracked.
Isiilde gazed at the sword, and in the reflection of the blade she saw darkness. The nymph looked up. The dome was completely obscured.
“The darkness on the ceiling—it’s thickening.”
Marsais scrutinized the shadows. “Hmm, there’s a wide corridor that way.” He pointed in the direction.
Isiilde fell in step beside him, gaze on the shadows overhead. “Did you know?” she whispered. Voices echoed strangely in the domed chamber. She felt as if someone were listening.
“I told you,” he snapped. “My visions stopped at Finnow’s Spire, the door to be specific. If I had known...”
“I’m not asking about your visions, Marsais,” she said gently. Her words soothed his irritation, and he sighed, closing his eyes. He was tired, she realized, and very much on edge. She glanced back at the others. All the humans were tired, and drifting, even her father. One step in front of the other; there was nowhere to go but forward.
“Forgive me. Who better to blame than a seer?”
She brushed his fingers with her own, and he grasped her hand in return, holding on tight. “What were those things?”
“Husks,” he rasped. “I didn’t know what they were at first, but I’ve learned not to react to everything my eyes see. When you attacked me with your dagger instead of your fire, I knew it was not you. During the ensuing battle, Elam dove into the fountain, and it opened. I assumed he was whom he appeared to be.”
“I thought the same when your husk attacked Rivan with a dagger. You could have slaughtered us all with a weave.”
He smirked. “I am not as deadly as you think—only very clever.”
“Only sometimes,” she said.
“Let us hope this is the ‘some’ in that time. I do not like those shadows.”
“Me either.”
The urge to quicken her pace itched at her legs, but Acacia could barely walk, and even Oenghus was lagging. What scheme was their long-dead opponent planning next? A shadow rune could be many things. The rune changed and slid from one cycle to the next with freedom of movement. Light ke
pt it at bay, but not if the shadow was cornered.
“We are going to find a dead end,” she said.
“Yes, I think so.” Marsais had drawn the same conclusion.
“I’m not going to worry about it,” she stated.
“If only I could be so brave.”
Isiilde cocked her head. “You did order me not to worry.”
“I could hardly forget that.”
A shift of shadow in a faraway corner caught her eye. The air was grey and tattered, and when she looked at the movement, it sank further into darkness. Coldness and misery prickled her skin. “We’re not alone,” she said.
“Ruins are rarely uninhabited.”
“How do you fight the Forsaken?”
“It depends entirely on what severed their spirit, and what they want.”
“What do most want?”
“Vengeance.”
The corridor was a hall in and of itself—wide and long and lined with arched pillars, leading to countless branches. Marsais ignored the intersecting corridors, and focused on the large door at the very end. Their footsteps echoed on the stone.
Isiilde glanced back. The way was obscured. She was not the only one to notice. Marsais broke into a run, and Isiilde matched his pace, climbing a series of stairs that led to a dais and the large double doors. The tops of the doors reached towards the spacious ceiling, as if a titan lived in the palace and needed all that space to get through a doorway. Symbols and runes spiraled up its length. There were no handles.
Marsais wove a Runic Eye, and the door flared to life. He stepped back, eyes intent, murmuring under his breath as he tried to decipher the writing.
Isiilde recognized the markings, but could not read them. “Is that the old tongue?” she asked.
Marsais nodded. “Very, very old. With one exception.” He pointed towards a symbol: three circles intertwined, each with the others. It reminded her of the ol’Father’s symbol that they had found in the ruins of Vaylin, except the wolves were missing. Where had she seen that mark before?
The Broken God (Legends of Fyrsta Book 3) Page 33